"To think," continued Mr. Perkins, bitterly, "of the soiled fingers of a labouring man, a printer, actually touching these fancies that even I hesitate to pen! Once I saw the fair white page of a book that had been through that painful experience. You never would have known it, my dear Miss St. Clair--it was actually filthy!"

"I see," murmured Elaine, duly impressed, "but are there not more favourable conditions?"

"I have thought there might be," returned the poet, after a significant silence, "indeed, I have prayed there might be. In some little nook among the pines, where the brook for ever sings and the petals of the apple blossoms glide away to fairyland upon its shining surface, while b.u.t.terflies float lazily here and there, if reverent hands might put the flowering of my genius into a modest little book--I should be tempted, yes, sorely tempted."

"Dear Mr. Perkins," cried Elaine, ecstatically clapping her hands, "how perfectly glorious that would be! To think how much sweetness and beauty would go into the book, if that were done!"

"Additionally," corrected Mr. Perkins, with a slight flush.

"Yes, of course I mean additionally. One could smell the apple blossoms through the printed page. Oh, Mr. Perkins, if I only had the means, how gladly would I devote my all to this wonderful, uplifting work!"

The poet glanced around furtively, then drew closer to Elaine. "I may tell you," he murmured, "in strict confidence, something which my lips have never breathed before, with the a.s.surance that it will be as though unsaid, may I not?"

"Indeed you may!"

"Then," whispered Mr. Perkins, "I am living in that hope. My dear Uncle Ebeneezer, though now departed, was a distinguished patron of the arts.

Many a time have I read him my work, a.s.sured of his deep, though unexpressed sympathy, and, lulled by the rhythm of our spoken speech, he has pa.s.sed without a jar from my dreamland to his own. I know he would never speak of it to any one--dear Uncle Ebeneezer was too finely grained for that--but still I feel a.s.sured that somewhere within the walls of that sorely afflicted house, a sum of--of money--has been placed, in the hope that I might find it and carry out this beautiful work."

"Have you hunted?" demanded Elaine, her eyes wide with wonder.

"No--not hunted. I beg you, do not use so coa.r.s.e a word. It jars upon my poet's soul with almost physical pain."

"I beg your pardon," returned Elaine, "but----"

"Sometimes," interrupted the poet, in a low tone, "when I have felt especially near to Uncle Ebeneezer's spirit, I have barely glanced in secret places where I have felt he might expect me to look for it, but, so far, I have been wholly unsuccessful, though I know that I plainly read his thought."

"Some word--some clue--did he give you none?"

"None whatever, except that once or twice he said that he would see that I was suitably provided for. He intimated that he intended me to have a sum apportioned to my deserts."

"Which would be a generous one; but now--Oh, Mr. Perkins, how can I help you?"

"You have never suspected, have you," asked Mr. Perkins, colouring to his temples, "that the room you now occupy might once have been my own? Have no poet's dreams, lingering in the untenanted s.p.a.ces, claimed your beauteous spirit in sleep?"

"Oh, Mr. Perkins, have I your room? I will so gladly give it up--I----"

The poet raised his hand. "No. The place where you have walked is holy ground. Not for the world would I dispossess you, but----"

A meaning look did the rest. "I see," said Elaine, quickly guessing his thought, "you want to hunt in my room. Oh, Mr. Perkins, I have thoughtlessly pained you again. Can you ever forgive me?"

"My thoughts," breathed Mr. Perkins, "are perhaps too finely phrased for modern speech. I would not trespa.s.s upon the place you have made your own, but----"

There was a brief silence, then Elaine understood. "I see," she said, submissively, "I will hunt myself. I mean, I will glance about in the hope that the spirit of Uncle Ebeneezer may make plain to me what you seek.

And----"

"And," interjected the poet, quite practical for the moment, "whatever you find is mine, for it was once my room. It is only on account of Uncle Ebeneezer's fine nature and his constant devotion to the Ideal that he did not give it to me direct. He knew it would pain me if he did so. You will remember?"

"I will remember. You need not fear to trust me."

"Then let us shake hands upon our compact." For a moment, Elaine's warm, rosy hand rested in the clammy, nerveless palm of Harold Vernon Perkins.

"Last night," he sighed, "I could not sleep. I was distressed by noises which appeared to emanate from the apartment of Mr. Skiles. Did you hear nothing?"

"Nothing," returned Elaine; "I sleep very soundly."

"The privilege of unpoetic souls," commented Mr. Perkins. "But, as usual, my restlessness was not without definite and beautiful result. In the still watches of the night, I achieved a--poem."

"Read it," cried Elaine, rapturously. "Oh, if I might hear it!"

Thus encouraged, Mr. Perkins drew a roll from his breast pocket. A fresh blue ribbon held it in cylindrical form, and the drooping ends waved in careless, artistic fashion.

"As you might expect, if you knew about such things," he began, clearing his throat, and all unconscious of the rapid approach of Mr. Chester, "it is upon sleep. It is done in the sonnet form, a very beautiful measure which I have made my own. I will read it now.

"SONNET ON SLEEP

"O Sleep, that fillst the human breast with peace, When night's dim curtains swing from out the West, In what way, in what manner, could we rest Were thy beneficent offices to cease?

O Sleep, thou art indeed the snowy fleece Upon Day's lamb. A welcome guest That comest alike to palace and to nest And givest the cares of life a glad release.

O Sleep, I beg thee, rest upon my eyes, For I am weary, worn, and sad,--indeed, Of thy great mercies have I piteous need So come and lead me off to Paradise."

His voice broke at the end, not so much from the intrinsic beauty of the lines as from perceiving Mr. Chester close at hand, grinning like the fabled p.u.s.s.y-cat of Cheshire, except that he did not fade away, leaving only the grin.

Elaine felt the alien presence and looked around. Woman-like, she quickly grasped the situation.

"I have been having a rare treat, Mr. Chester," she said, in her smoothest tones. "Mr. Perkins has very kindly been reading to me his beautiful _Sonnet on Sleep_, composed during a period of wakefulness last night. Did you hear it? Is it not a most unusual sonnet?"

"It is, indeed," answered d.i.c.k, dryly. "I never before had the privilege of hearing one that contained only twelve lines. Dante and Petrarch and Shakespeare and all those other ducks put fourteen lines in every blamed sonnet, for good measure."

Hurt to the quick, the sensitive poet walked away.

"How can you speak so!" cried Elaine, angrily. "Is not Mr. Perkins privileged to create a form?"

"To create a form, yes," returned d.i.c.k, easily, "but not to monkey with an old one. There's a difference."

Elaine would have followed the injured one had not d.i.c.k interfered. He caught her hand quickly, a new and unaccountable lump in his throat suddenly choking his utterance. "I say, Elaine," he said, huskily, "you're not thinking of hooking up with that red-furred lobster, are you?"

"I do not know," responded Elaine, with icy dignity, "what your uncouth language may mean, but I tolerate no interference whatever with my personal affairs." In a moment she was gone, and d.i.c.k watched the slender, pink-clad figure returning to the house with ill-concealed emotion.

All Summer, so far, he and Elaine had been good friends. They had laughed and joked and worked together in a care-free, happy-go-lucky fashion. The arrival of Mr. Perkins and his sudden admiration of Elaine had crystallised the situation. d.i.c.k knew now what caused the violent antics of his heart--a peaceful and well-behaved organ which had never before been so disturbed by a woman.

"I've got it," said d.i.c.k, to himself, deeply shamed. "Moonlight, poetry, mit-holding, and all the rest of it. Never having had it before, it's going hard with me. Why in the devil wasn't I taught to write doggerel when I was in college? A fellow don't stand any show nowadays unless he's a pocket edition of Byron."

He went on through the orchard at a run, instinctively healing a troubled mind by wearying the body. At the outer edge of it, he paused.

Suspended by a singularly strong bit of twine, a small, grinning skull hung from the lower branch of an apple tree, far out on the limb. "Cat's skull," thought d.i.c.k. "Wonder who hung it up there?"

He lingered, idly, for a moment or two, then observed that a small patch of gra.s.s directly underneath it was of that season's growth. His curiosity fully awake, he determined to dig a bit, though he had dug fruitlessly in many places since he came to the Jack-o'-Lantern.

"Uncle couldn't do anything conventional," he said to himself, "and I'm pretty sure he wouldn't want any of his relations to have his money. Here goes, just for luck!"

He went back to the barn for the spade, which already had fresh earth on it--the evidence of an early morning excavation privately made by Mrs.